


The King of Saturdays

by pokey_jr



Series: Only Sequences Change [8]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 15:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15643365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: “Connor, are you winking at me?”“No!” He says, perhaps a bit too defensively. “I’m not. I have a defective optical unit.”**Connor is a flirt, but doesn't quite realize it.





	The King of Saturdays

For more than twenty minutes now, you’ve been catching Connor winking at you. Intermittently, while you sit across the table from him at a booth against the back wall at Skunkworks Diner.

First, when you’re taking a sip of your beer. You narrow your eyes, not quite believing what you just saw. Too much to hope for, anyway, that he would ever be more than politely oblivious regarding your attraction to him. Again, when you have a spoonful of soup halfway to your mouth. Five more times after that, and then you stop counting, instead staring determinedly at the newspaper crossword next to your bowl.

Real paper news, back in vogue. You hadn’t understood the significance until Connor, accessing historical information in his databanks, had explained it to you. Just a throwback trend, he’d noted, but you’ve found you like the way the ink smells, and the way the paper sounds when you flip pages.

You pick up your pen, hovering over the starting square of 12-Down. Six letter word for ‘account exit’.

“It’s ‘logout’,” Connor offers.

You glance up, intending to glare at him, but that’s not an option when he gives you that little hint of a smile.

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome. If you require further assistance, Detective, I am well suited to solving puzzles, and happy to help.”

“I’m fine.”

You concentrate on the crossword, fill in a few more answers, wanting to tune him out because this crush really is futile. Within a minute or two the familiar dull metallic _snap_ resumes.

Connor and his coin tricks. You’ve tried to replicate them, but even after he’s showed you the technique, you can’t figure it out. Can’t get it to make the same noise as he does, let alone make it all look effortless.

And his hands. From beneath your eyelashes you watch as he flicks the quarter from one fist to the other, then pops it up and spins it edgewise. Finger to finger, and you can’t help imagining other scenarios in which his dexterity might be put to better use. What he’d do if you grabbed his wrist and told him to kiss you, or if he has the capacity to be bold enough to back you against a wall. To know how slowly to draw his fingers up your bare thigh, bring the hem of your skirt along with it. Would his programming predict your physiological response if he rubbed his palm over your clothed cunt before dipping in, running his fingers along your wet slit, teasing out your arousal.

You make the mistake of meeting his eyes with all these prurient fantasies swirling around, so potent you wonder if he can sense _them_ too, and he catches you staring.

And winks.

That’s it. You _have_ to ask. “Connor, are you winking at me?”

“No!” He says, perhaps a bit too defensively. “I’m not. I have a defective optical unit.”

“Ah.” Of course. Leave it to an android to be equipped with state of the art sensors and programming, and yet remain completely ignorant of the enormous crush you have on him.

He regards you evenly. “What purpose would it serve for me to wink at you, Detective? Or anyone, for that matter.”

“Forget about it,” you grumble. Back to your crossword again, and, concentrating, you hardly register him get up from the table, until he comes around to your side and slides into the booth next to you.

Surprised, you knock your soup, His proximity amplifies your desire, but you steadfastly cross your legs and keep working on your crossword hunched over.

This is when the real trouble usually starts. Connor has a habit of getting in your personal space, and then commenting on his effect on you.

“You appear flustered.”

“I’m not,” you huff. There will come a time when you must confess to him. The prospect is mortifying, and you can only imagine his polite confusion, and subsequent rejection.

“I noticed that your average completion time fluctuates based on a number of factors.”

“Oh, really? What, like I get worse when I’m distracted?”

“Correct.”

You look over at him, intending to snap, after all he’s the source of most of the distractions, but he winks. Again.

You stare at him for a moment too long, feeling your face heat up, and then it clicks. “Hey! You—that was your other eye!”

A wry smile spreads across his face as he studies you, his LED spinning yellow. As if gauging what else he can do to unbalance you. There’s nothing else for you but to return to your puzzle, which you have a better chance of solving than you do of ever completely understanding him. 

“Detective,” he startles you by scooting closer and placing his hand on your forearm. 

“Yeah?” You will your voice to sound steadier than you feel. 

“When you’re done, I’d like to accompany you back to your place.”

You swallow thickly, knowing he can sense the spike in your heart rate, every subtle change, and your imagination spins off to obscene places, picturing him beneath you, lips parting as you sink down onto his cock--

“To repair my optical unit.” He clarifies, interrupting your reverie. “Unless you had something else in mind?”


End file.
